Monday, January 4, 2010

Impending De-avocadofication

Bathroom catalogues have begun to appear around the house.

Not openly, in the hands of an interested Girly of Whirly, note; but in a manner both covert and indicative of womanly scheming — like in my sock drawer, on top of my DVDs, and meshed page by page between the leaves of my personal diary.

Unsure of my fate, I consulted the Oracle — and after a few strained meaows of complaint to point out that she hadn’t been fed since she polished off her mini tin of luxury cat food on Christmas Day, Geoff mused, “why consult the Oracle when you can read the book? Think kitchen. 2005? Remember?”

So I’m happy to report that some time very soon I shall be the proud joint owner of a new bathroom suite. I don’t know how, when, what colour, what cost, what anything, which kind of makes me feel like an astronomer scanning the heavens for the next undiscovered planet in the galaxy. Only instead of an undiscovered planet, it’s going to be a matching shower and lavatory. And instead of being an astronomer, I’m a hapless conscript, subdued by the whims of a woman hellbent on spanking new grouting. And the telescope? Read rolling pin.